


Nagito Trash-Fire Komaeda Donates himself to Science

by Suitov



Series: Izuru Kamukura's Cuddly Toy [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Awkwardness, Brattiness, Cancer, Dementia, First Person, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Izuru respects consent, Loneliness, Love at First Sight, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Touch-Starved, Understanding, disease symptoms, he doesn't really know what love is yet, kind of, masochistic little hope bagel, medical treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 04:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suitov/pseuds/Suitov
Summary: I know nobody would willingly choose to listen to my verminous narration instead of Izuru’s.  But maybe you’re here because my bad luck rubbed off on you!  In that case, firstly I’m so sorry, and secondly I recommend you go andread the first storyinstead of this cheap knock-off.If you’re still here, and you really don’t mind, you’re welcome to hear about the best and most hopeful encounter of my despicable life!  I’ll try not to make it boring!





	1. Nagito Trash-Fire Komaeda Donates himself to Science

**Author's Note:**

> This short piece is related to, _and completely spoilers_ , [Izuru Kamukura’s Cuddly Toy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623173/chapters/33794814). You should read that first; this one exists because I thought one of the scenes in it was amusing when seen from a different viewpoint.
> 
> Content warnings include anything you’d expect from Hope Trash Boy, namely self-hatred, masochism, delusion, references to illness, flaming hopesexuality, a generally unhealthy outlook on life, and merciless self-deprecation. Nobody gets stabbed, but Nagito wishes to be.

This ‘Ultimate Hope’ of theirs had better be worth seeing.

It had better be, because after getting caught sneaking in here, I’ve had it made very clear to me that I’m finished at this school. That’s true whether or not I “get that animal under control” as I’ve been instructed, so, given the way my luck works, at least there’s a chance I’m about to see something impressive.

Not that I truly expect much of any kind of man-made pseudo-Ultimate. Talent can’t be grown in a test tube like mould! You’re born with it—or, like most people, you aren’t, and should just go off and die somewhere—and then that talent is tempered by the fires of despair until it’s forged into the brightest and most brilliant hope. That’s what I believe. Well, not even believe. It’s extremely obvious that that’s how things work. So, really, I’ve most likely ruined my school life for nothing. What a disappointment.

It’d be nice if Miss Chisa is grateful to me. I know she won’t be—when you cross a stream, it’s inappropriate to thank the bridge—but maybe after I’m expelled she’ll at least remember I existed. Being allowed a tiny corner in the memory of an Ultimate you helped in some small way would be a lovely hope, I think. More than I deserve!

I have read a little about neurology for personal reasons, so I actually already knew of Professor ‘Maestro’ Ito. He’s a Hope’s Peak graduate under the title of Ultimate Neurosurgeon. A genius in his field! Middle-aged, hawkish and tall with strong brows. I had no idea he was working on campus, let alone on a project this ambitious. As the only Ultimate among the research staff (although they have used data on every Ultimate, past and present—with the presumable exception of me, because any data about my talent would be as worthless as I am), naturally Professor Ito is the project head. Meeting him was wonderful luck in itself, and he even bothered to insult me! It makes me so happy when Ultimates act as important as they are.

Not to say my classmates’ false modesty isn’t admirable too, of course! They’re truly kind to consent to breathe the same air as me. It makes me want to cry sometimes, but of course I spare them that ugly sight.

The professor is dragging me along by the scruff of my school blazer, which is kind of him, because I don’t know my way around the complex at all and would probably get lost like the nuisance I am. He stops by a security door, stares for a moment into what I guess is a retinal scanner, then as the door begins to swoosh aside, he shoves me sharply in the small of my back. I stagger inside—a graceful entrance, as expected of Nagito Disaster Komaeda—and try to get my bearings.

My first glimpse, of the narrowing strip of floor illuminated by the door, shows unappealing dark metal tiles and not much else. But before I’ve even caught my balance, someone outside turns the main light on and seals my doom.

My last ever thought as a free individual is _Well, this is unfair_…

…and it really is. Discovering you have a destiny ought to be very dramatic, don’t you think? There should be pastel colours, explosions, fireworks, a gunshot or two at the very least. But this? This is like a long, softly breathed _ohhhhhhhh_. No flames, no screaming. Just _oh, so this is why I exist_.

I never do recover my balance. I land hard on my knees.

Which is appropriate, because sitting on the shoddy metal-framed bed across the room, with one knee tucked up in front of him and an arm resting across it, is a newborn god.

Where even to begin? As beautiful as he is, physical appearances are almost irrelevant. What’s before me is raw _talent_ , the most I’ve ever seen, more than should be able to exist. They once showed us a weight on a rubber sheet in physics, talking about infinities or something. This is sort of like that. Too much to quantify, to make sense of. Something that forces you to zoom out your whole view of the world to fit it in frame, and suddenly everything else looks very small.

Before, I thought Chiaki was the brightest hope I’d ever seen. Just like Nagito Idiot Komaeda to mistake a night-light for the _sun_.

That said, he _is_ beautiful in a physical sense too. I won’t pretend I’m above noticing that! Dark skeins of hair in haphazard cascades; a face so symmetrical it’s almost fey; simply _gorgeous_ hands; a stupid Reserve Course uniform that someone must have put on him as a joke, but that flatters him rather too well for my blood pressure—red eyes with no visible emotion behind them, but instead an unearthly intelligence, and they’re looking at me as though they see every slimy, crawling thought inside and could pass judgement any second.

It shames me to admit those thoughts are by no means chaste. It’s disgusting of me, probably literally sacrilegious, and I can’t stop it.

And I’ve definitely forgotten what I was going to say. Oh no. This moment feels crucial and I would have to be _very lucky indeed_ not to mess it up—

—which means I’m better off not thinking at all, just opening my mouth and—

“Ah… hey,” I hear myself say. “Are you okay? I’m not here to… I won’t hurt you or anything. I’m just a toy. I’m yours.”

That felt right, I think. He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t blink. Was he listening?

I drag myself into a sitting position. I can feel my knees bruising already from the metal tiles. Nagito Bruises-Like-A-Peach Komaeda, that’s me. “I’m just going to stay over here and leave you alone,” I tell him gently.

He’s still watching me. Outside of libraries, long silences make me feel inadequate, like I’m taking up space without giving anything back. The urge to start chattering to amuse him is tremendous and I have to crush it down hard. Staying quiet feels like the right thing. When I’m this sure about something, it means my luck is either steering me to a good outcome or getting ready to punish me, and either way I’ve learned not to disobey.

I think everyone is a puppet of fate. Fate just decided that _I_ didn’t get to stay ignorant of that fact. Why me in particular? Logically, it can only be because I’m a worthless, ugly pollutant who deserves to die alone. See, knowing that makes it better, doesn’t it? So I try not to worry about what’s going to happen in the future. I try! I hope effort gets taken into account in the long run.

_The prototype is faulty._ _He’s_ _irrational, violent_ _and can’t be reasoned with_ _._ That’s what the researchers said to me. But is that really true? I may not know anything about mental conditioning or genetic engineering or however they made this boy, but I do know that if you treat something like an animal—for example, wave cattle prods at it, yell orders at it and keep it in a darkened cage—then you’ve no room to complain if it acts like an animal.

I was wrong about those eyes. That impassive face fooled me. I think there _is_ emotion in them. I think they’re watchful and a little uncertain.

I sit quietly. After the silence has lasted, I don’t know, a good few minutes (they confiscated my phone, so I’ve no way to tell), it gets easier to keep my trap shut. There’s still a lot I _want_ to say, but I wouldn’t know where to begin or how not to sound like a creep, so… it’s probably good luck, right?

Without warning, his head lifts up. He’s looking past me, at the door. “Out,” he says under his breath.

I have no time to confirm that he means me, or to scramble to my feet and obey, before he’s off the bed—he moves like a beautiful breeze, so fast, silent, _elegant_ , it makes me want to die—and as soon as a researcher opens the door to enter, he has her by the shoulders, spins her 180 degrees and pushes her firmly out again. The door snicks closed, cutting off her “Wha—?”

How did he know she was there to begin with? And why am I still here, when he could have thrown me out at the same time? Of course, it must be because I’m too distasteful to touch. I probably smell bad! I’ve only showered twice today. Nagito Sewage Pipe Komaeda. That must be it, right?

The god looks down at me for a long second—he _is_ uncertain!—before retreating to his bed. He sits with the other knee up this time, a perfect mirror of his position before.

I try to remember to breathe. It’s not that I wouldn’t happily die at his feet right this second, but I don’t want to cause anyone the inconvenience.

We resume staring at each other.

It startles me again when he gets up, because there’s no warning, no tilt of the head or pushing off the bed with his hands or anything, he’s just on his feet. This time he moves a lot more slowly, coming towards me but not in a straight line, in a slight arc as though I’m a prey animal he doesn’t want to frighten off, and I wish that comparison hadn’t occurred to me just now, because when he crouches down a full arm’s length away from me, I can’t help but imagine striped muscles bunching in readiness to pounce and seize a defenceless deer by the throat, and I can’t help thinking _yes, yes, please please yes_ , which is distracting to say the least.

His espresso-dark hair pools on the floor tiles, which seems wrong—doesn’t the ground know it doesn’t deserve to touch this boy?—and those heart-stealing eyes are on a level with mine, and I don’t know how I ever thought they were emotionless, they’re so subtly expressive I know I could learn to read novels in them if he’d just let me keep looking at him forever and ever, and he says “May I touch your hair?” and my thoughts grind to a halt.

Did I mishear? Is my greasy sponge of a brain finally disintegrating altogether? Is he mocking me? I don’t know. I don’t _know_! I nod, anyway, because there is nothing he could do that I’d say no to, not from _him_ , not from _the Ultimate Hope_.

He touches my hair. He actually _reaches out his hand_ —no, _no_ , _don’t_ think about those hands around your neck, Nagito Makes-Everything-Revolting Komaeda—and makes actual _physical contact_ with me. With my ghastly corpse hair! Without even recoiling or throwing up!

His eyes widen so slightly that I would have missed it if I weren’t lost in them, and he draws his hand back and says “ _Fluffy_ ,” and not fair not fair _not fair_ because I was already in love and now I’m disgustingly, _despairingly_ so and what is this boy _doing_ to me?

“Who _are_ you?” he asks, still crouched in front of me.

“I’m… no-one. I’m nothing,” I say. It was true before and it’s infinitely truer in his presence.

“Boring,” he says, which crushes my heart one size smaller, but then, “Unsatisfactory. I will call you Dandelion.”

“I’m sorry, I… don’t understand the insult,” I say, feeling especially stupid.

This time there is a definite flicker of feeling in those eyes. “As a nickname. Why would I insult you?”

I don’t understand the question, especially if it’s rhetorical, so I run away from it. “Dandelion? As in, white fluffy head?”

“On the most superficial level, yes. If it does not please you…”

“I love it,” I say, and mean it. A nickname! A _positive_ one! I never dreamed I’d live long enough to be given one of those!

He watches me for another short while, then says “May I hug you?”

“Yeah,” I say without thinking, because my Swiss-cheese brain has just melted.

And he… his arms around… gently pulls me… and…

Six months ago, Class 76’s Ultimate Blacksmith threatened me with a knife, the same year’s Ultimate Pharmacist knocked me down and Miss Chisa slapped my face, all in the same day. Five months ago, Mikan crashed into me by the lockers (my ugliness must have instinctively repelled her gaze and prevented her seeing me). Three months ago, a handsome nurse drew a blood sample from me and inserted a cannula in the back of my hand (the bruise from _that_ took over four weeks to fade). A couple of weeks ago, while carrying an armful of cleaning equipment, I collided with Peko and then Fuyuhiko kicked my shin (that bruised too, which was my own fault for having such fragile skin—I’m sure he didn’t mean it). So, people touch me quite frequently! I’m so lucky in that regard, sometimes I hug myself in gratitude.

But hugs from another person? I can’t remember a single one.

That never occurred to me as strange, because who am I to deserve sincere physical affection? Except that now I’m being held by someone, with excruciating gentleness, and there’s body heat and a heartbeat and a soft cheek pressed against my ear, and I’m discovering that hugs feel _amazing_.

“Thank you, Dandelion,” he says. He pulls away, stands up and retreats to the bed.

“Any time,” I say unsteadily. “Seriously, any time.”

After another pause, “I am called Izuru, the teachers say.”

“Yes, they told me. After the founder. It’s a great name, full of history!”

“Well, if you like it,” he says.

I’m not sure I understand.

He’s quiet for a while, then: “You have good luck.” Not really a question, so the Ultimate Hope must be able to sense talent. He’s truly amazing!

“Yes.” I feel like apologising. Nagito Disappointment Komaeda, couldn’t you have brought your god something better for his birthday than worthless _luck_?

“Then… why are you _here_?” he asks.

I don’t understand. Then I think I do, and my heart hurts all over again for this boy. I get up and join him on the bed, ready to back off quickly if he doesn’t like it. And yes, of course I make sure to leave a demure space between us—I’m not _that_ shameless. Besides, he’s so obviously, _adorably_ innocent, I wouldn’t if I could.

“I’m here to entertain you,” I tell him, “for as long as you want, Izuru.”

In place of an answer, I get him tentatively hugging me again. I don’t mind this at all. This isn’t even going to bruise.

I squeeze him back just as tenderly as he’s holding me. My new plan is to sneak as many more of these as I can before they kick me out—enough to last a lifetime, which should be possible, because I’ve already outlived all the medical estimates and I now know why destiny kept me alive until today.

“You know, Dandelion,” Izuru says, through a faceful of my hair—he seems to like snuggling against it, which means it just leapt from my most to my least hated feature—“you are very pretty.”

My face turns hot. He means it innocently, I tell myself. He means it innocently, Nagito Dandelion Komaeda, you lovestruck fool…

But I still wouldn’t be surprised to find out ten or twenty people I know have died as a result of that line alone. And the worst thing is, if he keeps holding me like this, I might not even mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Highly Accurate illustration of this moment](https://imgur.com/451b0gz) (made by me) (silly)


	2. The Elephant in the Test Subject's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place [during the first fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623173/chapters/33795099). Major spoilers, of course. This is the other one of the couple of scenes I think add some clarity when told from Nagito's perspective, Izuru's narration being as... _quirky_... as it is.
> 
> Nagito's diseases and symptoms are discussed here. It's more of a downer than the previous chapter—at least if you don't know what Izuru does immediately afterwards.

###  ~~Day 6, 15:47~~

The frisking today is perfunctory at best. Most of them have realised I’m the opposite of a security threat: I may be the reason they still _have_ their test subject. I’m certainly the reason he obeys them.

Not that that makes them dislike me any less. Nor should it. I am trash, after all!

In fact, the only person in the world who _hasn’t_ realised I’m trash, and that’s just because he leads a very sheltered life…

…is staring fixedly at the door when I come in, and lights up the moment he sees me.

“Dandelion. How was your day?”

“Oh, fine. English, history, Akane destroyed the locker room fighting one of the junior year, haha…” During which a flying steel beam narrowly missed my head. The Ultimates are so impressive! I was truly lucky to witness the meeting of their hopes… even if nothing quite compares to Izuru. (I’m so spoiled it's revolting.) “What about yours?”

“I designed a sub-orbital aircraft and was told not to ask questions.”

“An aircraft? In one day?”

“Part of the morning. Then I built a fort under the bed and sulked in it.”

The bed is neatly made now. Inwardly, I sigh. They never give him enough to do. From time to time, I’ll mention this to the more sympathetic members of the research staff—respectfully, of course—but they just make helpless noises. Or tell me to shut up and mind my place.

I join him on the floor. He’s got a heap of what I thought were white cardboard tiles, but now I see them closely, they’re jigsaw pieces. Straight edges, just little squares, and the picture is a close-up of cooked white rice. An extra-difficult jigsaw. That’s cute. Someone _is_ trying.

Then Izuru grabs me and pulls me closer and for several moments, on the cheerless black metal floor of that harshly-lit, barely-furnished prison cell he thinks is ‘his room’, everything is soft and safe and warm and bliss and this wretched mess of a human being feels complete. I nuzzle his silky hair and, as always, tell my libido to take a hike and stop sullying him with its dirty wishes. He murmurs “Fluffy”. My dying heart ruffles and preens.

We resume his task, this time with one of my arms substituting for the one of his that’s wrapped around me, and vice versa. I’m placing pieces as fast as he can tell me where, and he's somehow placing more with his free hand at the same time. This is so easy for him. Everything’s so easy for Izuru. If ever I somehow, perhaps by some quirk of my disintegrating brain, forgot that I belong to a _god_ , seeing him stoically and effortlessly achieve the impossible would remind me. That’s comforting. I worry about these things, you see.

“—ndelion.”

I lift my head off his shoulder, find his red eyes fixed on me with naked concern, and realise I’ve passed out.

Damn. Not in front of _him_. I’ve been so _careful_ …

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Long day.” Which is only the truth. Eight in the morning to three thirty is unbearably long. The rest of the time is too short.

“Mm,” says Izuru noncommittally. He’s quiet for a while. Then, “I thought you might finally tell me.”

My stupid heart sinks. I try for an innocent “Tell you what?”

“The reason for your lowered inhibitions, apathy, obsessive interests, salt cravings, reduced judgemental capacity, rigid thinking, constant feelings of coldness, aversion to noise, swollen lymph nodes, shortness of breath, lack of energy, night sweats and inability to put on weight, for example.”

Guiltily, I squirm out from under his arm and hug my knees.

“It sounds like you already figured it out.” Why did I ever imagine I could hide anything from a _god_?

He’s quiet.

I stare at the floor. “Haha, of course you had to list the symptoms in textbook order.”

He doesn’t speak.

“I di—” My voice cracks. I start again. “I didn’t want you to worry. Or, be disappointed in me, I guess.”

“Why would I ever—”

“After all, what kind of oozing, putrid, arrogant attempt at a human being would be so _selfish_ as to get close to you, only to— to—”

— _a researcher, probably the most junior one with nowhere lower to palm off the task, opening the mechanised door to inform their subject that the only soft thing in his world has finally achieved the ultimate failure and abandoned him; the light leaving his beautiful eyes, the cold waters of despair closing over his head—_

“—betray you?” Everything I’ve been trying not to think these past few days returns with cronies to exact the guilt I owe. I tug at my ghastly corpse hair and make a disgusting whimpering sound that somehow brings to mind plastic over my face, the stench of rotten eggs and fish scales…

Izuru scoops me up like I weigh nothing. I don’t resist, not ever. Being thrown out is really the least I deserve after what I’ve done, and I’m grateful to be touched by him one last—

I realise I’ve been put on the bed. The blanket is wrapped around me. Izuru is also wrapped around me. This is… it’s confusing.

“Dandelion, I want you to understand something.” He manages to talk clearly despite his face snuggling into me. “Even if it had been for only ten minutes, I would still be grateful to have known you.”

I sniffle grossly. “But I’ll just wind up hurting you. My luck always finds a way.”

“We shall see,” he says ominously. Then, as if that weren’t confusing enough, “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ —what for? Don’t apologise!”

“I realise it is… difficult to keep secrets around me. I try not to pry, or to act on information I don’t think people want me to know, but… even if I could not smell cancer, it is—”

“You can _smell cancer_?” For a moment I forget this is a serious conversation. Izuru's vast talent always, always surprises me.

“Sometimes I think they picked superpowers out of a hat. What I’m trying to say is, you have a right to have secrets. I will try hard to respect them. But, at the same time, there is vanishingly little you could tell me that would make you any less fluffy and perfect in my eyes.”

“I—I don’t deserve you, Izuru.”

“You deserve far more than I can give you.”

That’s not a point we ever agree on.

“I don’t want anything more. Being here for you, for however long I can, is—”

— _his steel-silk arms pinning my wrists to the wall beside the lockers, his flawless lips curling into a smirk before decisively claiming mine, hearts throbbing, muffled moans across the midnight campus—_

— _festival morning, daylight caressing legs sticking out from silk sheets, thunder of tiny feet and paws up and down the stairs, his loving face the first and only thing my sleepy eyes see—_

— _tea on the back porch, portable heater thrumming, legs lovingly touching, reaching out papery skin plucking a papery leaf from his grey hair—_

“—the most wonderful thing I could ever have,” I finish.

He’s petting my head. That’s a process we both enjoy.

I dab my eyes with the edge of the blanket. “I got both letters on the same day.” I didn’t mean to say that.

“Mm?”

I didn’t mean to say it and now I can’t seem to stop. “My admission letter and my diagnosis. Haha. ‘Congratulations’. ‘We regret to inform you’. ‘You have been accepted into your dream school with malignant lymphoma and frontotemporal dementia. Pack your things, don’t bother bringing any long books.’ It all blurred together, you know? Just my luck doing what it will.”

“Mm…”

Izuru feels empathy very deeply. He just struggles to articulate it. Unlike me. Empathy’s one of the first things to go when your brain starts eating itself, apparently. It’s probably why I can be so vile as to attach myself to someone like him and leech off his compassion. Nagito Dandelion Komaeda, who’d break his god’s heart for nothing more than his pathetic fear of dying alone.

But am I just saying all this to manipulate you? I honestly can’t tell any more.

“Are these diseases of special significance to you?” Izuru asks.

I blink myself out of my thoughts. “I… don’t understand.”

“Do they have sentimental value? Would you object if they went away?”

“Izuru, the dementia’s incurable.”

“Saying hypothetically that it weren’t.”

I sigh. “No, Izuru, I wouldn’t object if the things killing me somehow magically went away. But even with my luck— _especially_ with my luck, after it decided this was my fate—there’s really no use thinking about it.”

“Mm.” I think he’s feeling non-verbal. “Get some rest, Dandelion, and I’ll think about what can be done.”

I cuddle down in his arms and soon I’m semi-dozing beneath his slow, regular pets. I’ve learned not to mind silences with Izuru. He finds small talk unpleasant and quiet time relaxing. Sometimes—honestly, most of the time—I feel like Izuru, for all his quirks, actually makes more sense than regular people. He's everything a god should be, if I can just avoid ruining him.

Eventually we both sleep.

He doesn’t mention it the next morning. I know he hasn’t forgotten it, but with any lu… I mean, hopefu… I mean, _the best-case scenario is_ that he’s coming to terms with it in his own way.

They remove me from his cell, and I go to shower and change before class, and I expect that to be the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: it was not, in fact, the end of it.


	3. Nagito Dandelion Komaeda is Careful What He Wishes For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this takes place during the first fic. Minor warning for mention of past animal death.

Of the many times I’ve imagined being immobilised on Izuru’s bed, sweating, writhing and moaning, it’s never been for _this_ reason.

A cool hand strokes wet wisps of ghastly corpse hair out of my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted it to be painless. More gradual and gentle at least. There just wasn’t time to perfect it.”

I force a strangled “hah” and a smile. The last thing I want is for him to blame himself for this… this miracle.

* * *

I don’t know what time it was—no windows in here, no phones allowed—when I woke up to Izuru’s hope-inducing touch on my shoulder and his divine, beautiful voice saying something so nonsensical that at first I assumed I was still asleep. What would _you_ think if the centre of your world (and subject of your most agonising crush) just casually asked permission to cure your incurable, degenerative brain disease?

Obviously, I said no.

Obviously, he accepted my no, but he did ask why.

“A gift like that… for someone like me… it’s too much,” I told him.

He processed this for a second and then said “But you gave me that multitool.”

“Please… that was such an unworthy offering. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just grateful you accepted it.”

“I like it,” he said, sounding faintly lost. “Nobody had given me a gift before. And it is practical. Besides, you help me in all those other ways.”

“Izuru, that doesn’t compare to developing cures for cancer and dementia in a single night!”

“Ah.” I heard hair rustle as though he was nodding. “I see. Yes, it is far less time and energy than you’ve spent on me. But that will change. I can do much more for you if I can get free from—”

“Izuru… Izuru. I meant the other way around. You’re talking about saving my _life_. All I do is—is hang around you, listen to you and cuddle with you, all of which probably benefit me a lot more than you. I’m just selfish, creepy trash.”

The silence lasted until I started to wonder if he’d left the room.

Then he said “Nobody else does those things.”

“No, that’s wr—I mean, the research staff aside, anyone would gladly do that stuff for you! And be able to serve you in so many more ways than I can!”

“Even if they would,” he said, “and even if I wanted them to, those people are not _here_.”

“Ah… well. If I'm here, that’s my luck’s doing, not mine.”

Sounding even more lost than before, he said “I thought it was _my_ luck.”

If that’s what he thinks, I really need to get this poor, sheltered guy better socialised.

“So…” He stroked my hair once, absent-mindedly. “Your reason for not wanting the cure is that you place little value on your own time and much on mine, such that you think it will create too great a debt differential? I… did not think that was how gifts worked.”

“Um... I don’t know, actually.” I frowned into the darkness at that realisation. “I only really remember being given one. And my luck took him away not long after. I guess it’s meant to be like hope and despair? A balance?”

“In that case, Dandelion, allow me to brag. _I_ do _not_ place much value on my time. I am loved by talent, but that talent is being squandered every day on pointless testing and trivial tasks. _I am bored._ You, simply by existing, presented me with something to do, and moreover, something that was entirely my choice to do or not do. Dandelion, it was not even that difficult. I synthesised two entirely separate cures within six hours. I composed a symphony and invented an effective humane mousetrap at the same time. You think your making my existence bearable is trivial? I think this was trivial. There, you see? Balance.”

That shut me up. Izuru’s never shown any ego in all the time I’ve known him—trust me, if he had, I’d be drooling over him even more than I already am. Confident, dominant men… um, and catch me rambling again like the sacrilegious slime I am. What I mean is, when Izuru goes outside his comfort zone it’s a sign that something matters very much to him.

And after all, don’t I live to serve him?

“Is… that incorrect?”

“I… no, Izuru, when you put it like that… it’s just…”

“This is not intended to pressure you, but you did say you would have no objection if your diseases went away. Was _that_ incorrect?”

“No, it wasn’t… but… that was when I thought it could never happen.”

“I do not grasp the logic.”

“There isn’t any,” I sighed.

“Dandelion, if you do not want this, you need not accept it. If, however, you think you are not _allowed_ to want it, then that is different. Your runaway luck cycle has distorted your thinking, quite understandably. But, when it comes to the two of us, that is irrelevant. You are allowed to want anything at all.”

Oh, sweet, sheltered Izuru, if you only knew, you’d discard me so fast.

There was no way I could deserve a cure. I’ve long accepted being marked for death. It’s only right for a crawling curse like me. I’ve already lived far longer than the doctors thought possible, even lived to meet the absolute centre of my solar system, who knows _everything_ , who knows so much more than me…

I stopped. I thought, really thought, about what he’d said. He gave me time.

I thought about—

— _petals, pink-tinged white, falling in fours and nines into the waiting water, falling and falling and how few remain, now, on the broken branch—_

—and I realised something that terrified and rather disgusted me.

_I want to live._

“I’ll do it.”

I heard him stir. “Are you sure? If you are wavering this much on the decision, perhaps you should postpone. We ca—”

“Izuru. Please cure me. Use your hope to save my life, pathetic as it is. Would you like me to beg? I’ll beg.” It was my fault he was doubting himself. I’m trash.

“I only want you to be sure… no, of course I would never make you beg.”

A little disappointing. But I groped forward in the dark. My trembling hand met his: warm, firm, strong, strong enough to lift the entire world but choosing to lift me.

* * *

The injections themselves were painless, as expected of Izuru. The drugs, as they took effect… well, here I am, writhing and whimpering.

“Emotion…” he says.

“Can you… describe it?”

“Are you well enough for that?”

“Distract me,” I say.

“It is… as though there has been a loud, spiky noise for a long time and it has just ended.”

“Relief. You’re relieved.”

“Ah. Yes. And another… as though holding an intricate, fragile machine that is very nice and I do not wish to damage it?”

“I think that’s… tenderness?”

“Tenderness,” he echoes, sounding satisfied. One edge of the mattress lifts for a moment. “I will dispose of the phials and syringes properly later. For now it will help if we sleep, or at least feign it. They’ll probably find out I’ve been outside, but we look slightly more innocent that way.”

“’kay…”

“And when they come and throw you out, you must go straight to bed. Please do not try to go to class or visit me until you are stronger. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“Hold… me?”

“Always, Dandelion. Always.” He slips into bed and we melt together into our usual, spooning, me-stealing-as-much-physical-contact-with-him-as-humanly-possible position. “Fluffy,” he murmurs, and his breath on my ear is a different, welcome kind of agony.

Sweet, unworldly Izuru who cares so much and doesn’t realise it. Rancid, unworthy Nagito who can never tell him that I—how I feel about him. And that’s fine. I have so much right now that daring to ask for more, despite Izuru’s confidence that he can keep my luck at bay, is a risk I will never take. Not if it could harm him.

If Izuru Kamukura were destroyed, no hope could ever arise that would overcome that despair.

I chuckle as the undeadly drugs rampage through me. “If… I said I had a Pick body… would you pick my body1?” (Don’t worry. He doesn’t know a pick-up line when he hears one and, after all, it’s my last ever chance to use this one.)

“The idea is that you will not have any for much longer,” he says, slightly nonplussed.

I snuggle closer. Izuru is warm and safe. Izuru will take the pain away.

“You—” I interrupt myself with a yawn. “You really are… Ultimate Hope…”

There’s silence for a while. Then, “I wonder who really is. I only feel hopeful when I am with you.”

His voice is beautiful.  As I drift into healing sleep, I wonder who he’s talking to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 A Pick body is the type of plaque that forms in the brain with Nagito’s form of dementia. “Pick’s disease” is an old term for the disease as a whole.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This one's for my commenters! A few people thought the previous chapter was sad, which, well, it was, so here we get to see what happened very shortly afterwards. I love hearing from readers and you guys do influence things.

**Author's Note:**

> ### Extras
> 
> #### Fan art!
> 
>   * [**Secret hand-holding** by bon3bait](https://moddeydhoo.tumblr.com/post/174281898760)
>   * [**His favourite word** by furiouscatlover13](https://moddeydhoo.tumblr.com/post/175366512510)
>   * [**Moodboard collage** by eggdrawsandtalks](https://moddeydhoo.tumblr.com/post/175192610215)
>   * [**Izuru leaves his cell for the last time** by eggboy64](https://moddeydhoo.tumblr.com/post/178587994145), fellow purveyor of Kamukoma
>   * [**Flower crown and blurted question** by nothlits/klavart](https://moddeydhoo.tumblr.com/post/178614634375), certified magnificent and gay
> 

> 
> Thank you sincerely. Receiving these was a huge honour. ♥ (Izuru adds a satisfied "Fluffy.")
> 
>   * [Collage by me](https://moddeydhoo.tumblr.com/post/174748011515) because lions! and tigers!
> 

> 
> * * *
> 
> #### Playlists
> 
>   * [♥♥Dandelion's Super-Duper-Hopeful Playlist!♥♥](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLHyxxmJuvHkP3mBwGYyh404GM3Hyc_LHc)
>   * [ultimatePlaylist0DidntFinishGotBored](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLHyxxmJuvHkNvD6uJZhxUnvVgM9JnskGP)
>   * [Dandelion would never make a despairful playlist! Don't be ridiculous! And if he did, nobody would ever see it~](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLHyxxmJuvHkPQCiZWqi6czIE94fmO2BpT)
> 



End file.
